Monday, August 16, 2010


Love me
And I will love you,
Faithful and true.
Try to own me and I will object
As objects are aught to do.

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Saturday, August 14, 2010


Wish I could drop my worries in a porcilean bowl,
But I'm a working man now
I'll use the plastic shit hole.
Lesson of the day
Don't by shwarma from a truck.

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Living poets

We come to the garden of the dead
Peter lacing his prose of the news so laden with human dread, quirky quatrains of this world which, alas, is mad.
Topaz will tell a story, rhythmed in beat with her aching heart, a old hippy that never gave up, but thinks she may start.
Karen will make melody of the burden, as her husband sits quietly.
Jean takes her time pondering the leaves of society.
Katie will recount the nature, naturally in tune, recounting happier times as the echo of a loon across still waters.
Aron will home a tome written with resolution, clawed with the slapping steel drum, the joy of the ink press exciting his mind and fingertips to sublime inquisition.
John will say a dirty couplet, given the time a thousand limericks, lighthearted, quite jovial, a nod to Service and several anonymous bar room bards.
Serge will cant a witty wondering, a whimsy so whimsical with wit you might laugh till you shit.
Anne Page will pipe in in her sweet note a merry warble of a bird that has seen the world from it's highs to lows and breath tears and laughter into her prose.
Anne Butler will yell at someone to speak up, then quietly contemplate footprints mysteriously washed into the sea.
I, your humble narrator, will relate a poem that relates to me, not in vanity, but in honesty, as it is the only world I can truly see.
And Suad sit in the corner in awe. Listening appreciatively.
We come to the garden alive and will never leave as long as you recant this scene.

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great men or even men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word, must from their very nature be criminals—more or less, of course. Otherwise it's hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that.

-Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky

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